


No Hope

by The3rdTrumpeteer



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Batman: Arkham - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham Knight (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Batman: Arkham Knight Spoilers, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Concussions, Violence, tim gets his shit rocked but what else is new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:40:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29058378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The3rdTrumpeteer/pseuds/The3rdTrumpeteer
Summary: How did everything go so wrong so quickly? How long has Batman been fighting this infection? How did Tim not notice?Tim is furious. With Batman. With himself. With every maniac in this fucked up city.---The ending (or most of it) of Batman: Arkham Knight from Robin's perspective.
Kudos: 11





	No Hope

Tim stabs the end of his staff at the plexiglass door of the cell for what has to be the hundredth time, but of course, he barely even makes a dent in the fortified plastic. He groans in frustration and leans against the wall, going over his (increasingly slim) options.

He can’t break the door, at least not with his staff or his shurikens. He could try explosives…

Twenty seconds later, Tim is coughing, trying not to inhale the smoke that is slowly filtering out of the cell, and glaring at the door, which is virtually unscathed save for a few scratches and burn marks.

“Hey, bird-for-brains, are ya done over there or what?” Harley calls from her cell across the room. She’s sitting on her cot, watching him with what might be exasperation if there weren’t still tear tracks on her cheeks. “Yer givin’ me a headache with all that racket.”

Tim ignores her but does stop trying to break the door. He sighs and leans against the metal door at the back of the cell, sliding down slowly until he’s sitting on the floor. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and scrubs a hand across his face.

How did everything go so wrong so quickly? How long has Batman been fighting this infection? How did Tim not  _ notice _ ?

Tim is furious. With Batman. With himself. With every maniac in this fucked up city.

Batman should have let him help. Should be letting him help right now. Tim knows it’s only a matter of time before Batman succumbs to the Joker infection, no matter how hard he tries to fight it. If Bruce had only said something, or if Tim had noticed that something was off, maybe they could have… 

What could they have done? Tim only has a vague idea of what’s been going down tonight, only the information Bruce or Alfred passed onto him through comms, only the stuff Barbara found-

_ Fuck _ . Tim’s throat tightens at the thought of her. He doesn’t even know how it  _ happened _ . Was she captured by Scarecrow? How long was she in danger, alone, afraid? Before they-

Tim could have stopped it. If Bruce--if Batman had let him know instead of keeping him busy with what turned out to be a wild fucking goose chase. Maybe if the son-of-a-bitch wasn’t so goddamn secretive, so set on thinking that he was the only one capable of fixing all of this. If he actually listened to his allies, his  _ friends _ , instead of pulling this “I work alone” bullshit.

Tim can take care of himself. He could have taken care of Barbara, too. But instead, he’s locked in a cell because Batman is trying to “protect” him. Like a child in fucking timeout.

A quiet alert, a small beep from the computer interrupts Tim’s internal rant. Someone’s coming down the elevator.

He grabs his staff and stands up, walking to the front of the cell. It’s probably Batman, coming back to… Tim can’t even think of what. He only hopes that something hasn’t triggered a full Joker episode; he wasn’t lying before when he told Batman he wouldn’t be able to stop him if he succumbed to the infection.

There’s another ding, from the elevator this time, and the sound of the doors sliding open.

And Jim Gordon walks into the room.

“Commissioner?” Tim breathes. The man looks rough; dark, ugly bruises cover his face and extend down his neck and under his collar. His hands are scraped and bloodied, and there is a tear in the knee of his slacks. His eyes, however, are bright and alert and settle on Tim almost immediately. Jim’s expression is raw with stress and fear, and as he walks further into the room, Tim can see why.

“Ah, Robin, there you are,” Scarecrow rasps. He’s holding a pistol (Jim’s revolver, from the look of it), holding it loosely as he walks behind the commissioner, followed by a number of henchmen, all wearing military-esque uniforms and gas masks (the militia; Alfred filled him in on their operation earlier tonight). Tim counts at least twenty. They’re all armed. Shit. “How convenient of the Batman to leave you caged, ready for the taking.” He glances disinterestedly at the Jokerized bodies scattered across the room. “After all, it looks like he’s the only one who could have done it.”

Tim doesn’t answer, only lowers himself into a fighting position and glares at Scarecrow. The man laughs, and it’s a terrible sound.

“Now, now, little Robin, none of that,” he says. He pulls back the hammer on the revolver and points the gun at Jim’s head, finger on the trigger. “One of my men will open your cell, and you will come with us without a fight, lest my finger slips.”

Tim knows that Scarecrow isn’t bluffing. He lowers his staff.

“Good boy.” Scarecrow motions to one of the soldiers, a large man carrying an assault rifle. “Unlatch the little bird’s cage.”

The man slings his gun onto his back and approaches the cell, staring at the panel next to the door for a moment before pressing the screen. The door slides open with a quiet hiss.

“Step forward,” Scarecrow orders. Tim does, begrudgingly. He glances at Jim, raises an eyebrow in an  _ are you okay _ gesture (not that Jim should be okay; none of this is okay). Jim gives him a slight nod.

“Take his staff and relieve him of his belt,” Scarecrow tells the man who opened the cell door. “Make sure to search him thoroughly for weapons; the bats are a sneaky lot.”

The man yanks Tim’s staff from his grip and throws it aside. Tim has no choice but to submit to the search as his belt is unlatched and the man quickly runs his hands up and down his uniform. Tim hears a few metallic  _ clangs _ ; the man has obviously found the few hidden weapons Tim carries on his person. A minute or so later, the man seems satisfied and steps back, still holding Tim’s staff in one hand and his belt in the other.

“Good. Very good.” Scarecrow hands Jim’s pistol to another soldier, who trains it back on the commissioner, and approaches Tim before walking behind him. Tim just barely manages not to flinch when he feels the man’s hands rest on his shoulders and unclip his cape. 

Tim suddenly feels oddly exposed.

“You.” The man holding Tim’s staff straightens, ready to heed Scarecrow’s next order. “Do what you must to make sure Robin doesn’t hinder us before we relocate to our final destination.”

Tim doesn’t even have time to react before the man swings his staff (fucking great, Tim’s about to get brained with his own weapon, there has to be some kind of irony in that, right?) at his head. Tim’s world explodes into pain and bright colors that quickly fade to gray as he stumbles. There are tears in his eyes, and his vision is already blurring, and he can do nothing when the man hits him again. Tim falls this time, landing on his hands and knees on the cold metal floor.

“Fucking bastards!” That’s Jim, Tim realizes, and he sounds pissed. There’s a  _ thud _ that Tim has heard enough times to automatically recognize as someone getting punched in the face, and Jim groans. Tim wants to help him. He pushes his hands against the floor and tries to get his feet back under him, but a heavy boot to the stomach sends him rolling. His uniform’s armor dulls some of the impact, but the soldier’s boot is steel-toed, and the man kicks  _ hard _ . He doesn’t even see the boot flying toward his face until it breaks his nose. 

Tim groans and falls limply against the floor. He squeezes his eyes shut because the lights are suddenly too bright, and the world is spinning. Someone pulls his arms roughly behind his back, but Tim can’t muster the strength to fight. He feels the familiar pinch of handcuffs (either his own or Jim’s, probably) as they’re tightened around his wrists.

Scarecrow is suddenly  _ too close _ , kneeling in front of Tim and studying him like he’s something he wants to dissect. Tim can see his staff in Scarecrow’s hand (when did he get that?). The man stands and twirls the staff.

“Don’t you worry, little Robin,” he says with a smile. “You won’t be needing this anymore.” With surprising strength, Scarecrow snaps the staff in half over his knee and throws the pieces to the side. He gestures vaguely to Tim and Jim. “Take them outside.”

Tim doesn’t remember passing out, but he must have, because suddenly he’s opening his eyes to darkness. The ground (floor? Where is he?) beneath him is vibrating too much, and he tries to steady himself before he gets sick. Tim groans, and he barely registers a presence beside him before someone lays a gentle hand on his cheek.

“You awake, son? Robin?” A voice whispers, and it takes TIm a moment to realize it’s Jim; he can just barely make out the man’s face--though it’s blurry--as he leans over him.

“...yeah, I’m awake.” Tim hears Jim sigh. “Where are we?”

“In the back of one of Scarecrow’s trucks,” Jim says. That explains the vibrating floor. “I don’t know where they’re taking us, but it can’t be good.”

Tim nods and instantly regrets it when the pounding in his head returns with a vengeance. He attempts to shift into a minutely more comfortable position, but with his hands still cuffed behind his back, he can do little more than roll onto his side to try and relieve some of the strain on his aching shoulders. “How long was I out?”

Jim glances at his watch. “About half an hour. We’ve been moving for twenty minutes.”

“Oh.” Twenty minutes, and they haven’t reached their destination yet. They’re probably moving somewhere off Bleake Island, then. But where?

Tim doesn’t know how much longer they’re in the van. He closes his eyes, trying to keep his nausea to a minimum. At some point, he feels Jim rest a hand on his shoulder. He lets his thoughts drift, and suddenly he remembers.

“Jim,” he whispers. “Batman told me… Barbara-”

“She’s fine, son.” Jim’s voice is only the tiniest bit unsteady, as though he’s still trying to convince himself. “Batman got her. She’s fine.”

“She’s…” Tim’s head reels for a moment. “But he said she-”

“It was a trick. I thought she had, too, but…” Jim sighs. “If I know Batman as well as I think I do, she’s safe.”

Tim doesn’t have time to figure about what  _ that  _ means, because suddenly the vibrations of the van come to a stop. Wherever Scarecrow was taking them, it seems they’ve arrived.

Then there’s the sound of doors slamming, and voices. Jim’s hand tightens on Tim’s shoulder.

A moment later, the back door of the van is thrown open.

“On your feet,” one of the soldiers says as he grabs Tim by the ankle and drags him roughly out of the van, ensuring he will most certainly  _ not _ be able to get on his feet. With his hands bound, there isn’t much Tim can do to catch himself, and his head clips the sharp edge of the rusted step jutting out from the back of the van. Tim hits the ground, seeing stars and trying desperately to ignore the reignited fire in his head. The soldier nudges him with his foot, but Tim is concentrating too much on not passing out to care. “Get up.”

“He can’t,” Jim says, and his hands are suddenly back on Tim’s shoulders, gently pulling him into a sitting position. Tim takes a few breaths, deep as he dares without getting sick, to steady himself. The stars begin to fade, but the black hovering at the edges of his vision doesn’t.

“Then get him up,” the soldier commands. Jim hesitates for only a moment before he moves his hands from Tim’s shoulders to under his arms.

“Sorry ‘bout this, son,” he whispers, and helps him to his feet. Tim’s knees immediately buckle, but Jim has already put a supporting arm around his waist, so he doesn’t fall. 

What a sad, sorry pair they must look, Tim thinks ruefully as they limp jerkily forward. He can hear one soldier in front of them and God knows how many behind them. He can’t raise his head to look around without the nausea creeping back up (and his vision is still too fuzzy to see anything that clearly, anyway), so he can’t see where Scarecrow is. Hell, he doesn’t even know where  _ he _ is. At least, not until the soldier leads them to a set of large, moldy, imposing wooden doors.

Tim stiffens; he knows where they are. He glances toward Jim, ignoring his pounding head, and sees the man’s grim expression, mouth set in a thin line. Of course, Jim probably realized where they were the moment the van doors opened; he’s definitely more aware than Tim of his surroundings at the moment, and it’s impossible to forget Arkham Asylum, especially when one knows exactly what used to happen here.

Two soldiers move to the doors and pull them open. The wood creaks loudly from disuse, and Tim resists the urge to cough as the strong smell of mildew wafts from within the building. Jim makes a quiet, displeased sound. One of the soldiers shoves them forward, up the stairs, and suddenly they’re in the lobby of the asylum. The place is falling apart; obviously the city tried to forget it ever existed once it shut down. However, now it seems that was Gotham’s downfall. Computer and television monitors, each showing a different news broadcast, litter the walls, and lighting equipment and other pieces of machinery have been set up across the lobby, creating a sort of mock movie set. Scarecrow stands at one of the monitors, staring at something Tim can’t quite make out, and he turns as soon as his prisoners (oh, fuck, they really are prisoners, aren’t they, Tim can’t help thinking with a jolt of fear) walk (hobble?) into the room.

“Ah, yes, thank you for joining us,” Scarecrow says in a tone of voice that suggests he’s smiling under his mask. “Commissioner, if you would set Robin in that chair there.” He gestures to a wooden chair that sits in front of a video camera on a stand. Gordon glares at Scarecrow before doing what he’s told, helping Tim sit as carefully as possible (and Tim is grateful, he really is, but this damn concussion is making him feel so weak, and he hates it).

A soldier shoves Jim out of the way and wrenches TIm’s arms behind his back, tightly tying his wrists together.

Scarecrow approaches Tim, who just stares at him with what he hopes is an intimidating expression (but is probably just a grimace). “It’s showtime, little Robin.”

And then he turns toward the video camera. Tim is pretty sure he can guess who’s going to receive this footage.

One of the screens across the room flickers on, and though the image is grainy, Batman’s masked face is unmistakable.

“Your fears got the better of you, I see,” Scarecrow says. “How fitting that I will win, and Batman’s life will be over. Not because of what I have done to your precious city, but because you are scared of what I will do to your friends, your family.”

Scarecrow nods to one of his soldiers, who immediately hauls back and punches Tim in the face. Tim can’t help the strangled cry that escapes his lips. The soldier punches him a second time before backing off, and Tim falls forward in the chair, jerked to a stop by the bindings on his wrists. He feels Jim’s hands on his shoulders as the man carefully pulls him back up and keeps him steady.

“...are your weakness, hiding just below the surface.” Scarecrow’s voice is floating in and out. Tim is fading fast. “I’m sure you are scared of what will happen when... ”

For what feels like the hundredth time tonight, Tim passes out. 

He comes to god knows how much later. Through the cotton stuffing that has apparently replaced his brain, he hears Jim mutter, “oh, shit.”

Tim glances up just in time to see the soldiers wheeling something into the room.

Oh, shit.

“Batman…” It’s hard to form words; Tim knows he shouldn’t be shocked, but he still  _ is _ . “Is that you?”

Bruce is strapped to what looks to be an old, rusted gurney, tilted to a vertical position. As he is wheeled to a stop, he looks at Tim with what could be regret.

“I’m sorry, Robin.”

Tim can’t find the energy to reply.

“Are you ready?” Scarecrow circles Batman slowly.

“This isn’t going to end how you think, Crane.” And Batman sounds so sure, in any other situation Tim would believe him.

Scarecrow doesn’t seem phased by the threat. “Enough bravado; it’s too late for that. I don’t care who you are, but they will.” He gestures to the screens broadcasting the news. “I’m going to rob them of hope. As they stare into your eyes, they will blame you. Failure will have a face  _ and  _ a name. It’s time. Mister Gordon,” he turns to Jim. “I would like you to do the honors.”

Jim takes his hands from Tim’s shoulders. “Never. I’m done taking orders from you.”

Scarecrow slowly raises a gun Tim had forgotten he had and points it at the commissioner. Fuck, Jim’s going to die-

And then the gun lands on Tim instead, and Scarecrow fires. He feels the bullet hit his chest, puncture his armor. Maybe Scarecrow was right; there’s no more hope.

Tim doesn’t remember hitting the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> tbh it cracks me up how much tim gets shot/almost shot in just the arkham knight game. get it together, tim.  
> find me on tumblr: @iam-theknight


End file.
